Science and Practice
by moonlighten
Summary: September, 2009: England finds France trying to drown his sorrows in the rain. Two chapters, complete. Part 39 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

Companion piece to both Not Falling or Feeling (part 39 of the FtF series) and Love is a Verb (part 38 of the FtF series).  
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25th September, 2009; London, England**

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It has been raining all evening; never more than a light drizzle, but persistent enough that France is sodden in more ways than one when England discovers him slumped, boneless and dissolute, on one of the hard plastic chairs set out on the pub's terrace.

It's nearing midnight, and the sky is clear enough that the darkness hasn't retained a single speck of the day's muggy autumnal heat. All but the hardiest of souls had retreated once the sun sank below the horizon, and even the drunkest had sought shelter not long afterwards.

France thus sits alone, his thin shirt stuck as close as paint to his skin, soaked to an obscene transparency that reveals the dark outlines of his nipples and the whorls of hair that lie between. He appears to be surrounded by a thin fog: the ember-bright patio heater at his side raising a mist of steam from his damp trousers, and his breath crystallising against the gelid air in light billows as wispy and insubstantial as curriform clouds.

Both of his arms hang lax at his sides, fingertips almost brushing the paving stones below, and the cigarette precariously balanced between the index and middle fingers of his right hand has burnt almost down to the butt, though the long tower of ash it's supporting suggests that France hasn't taken a drag from it since the first to get it to light.

"You're going to have to move, Frog," England says as he approaches him. "It's nearly chucking out time."

France's head bobs unsteadily as he turns it towards England, like a balloon that's only loosely tethered to the anchor of his shoulders. His eyes are so heavily lidded that they almost look swollen.

"_Non_," he says at length; sharp, unapologetic, and with all the pouting truculence of a thwarted toddler.

England groans. "One of the bouncers will be round to pick you up and _throw_ you out soon enough if you don't."

On most other nights, he'd be cheering them on from the sidelines, but here, on home turf, such things can often prove politically and professionally troublesome. England's bosses seem to expect him to act as a babysitter to his fellow nations when they visit on business, and allowing one of their closest allies to be manhandled would be seen as a dereliction of duty.

"I don't care," France says, again in French. His voice has a thick, nasal quality to it that hints of an incipient cold, which is a natural and just consequence for not having sufficient good sense to come in out of the rain, as far as England's concerned. "Just leave me here."

That said, he sinks even deeper into his seat, his legs splaying out in front of him and his head falling to rest with an audible thump against the top of the backrest. He gives a small mewl of pain then, like some kind of wounded animal, even though England finds it difficult to believe that he could have felt the impact at all through the twin shields of alcohol and his thick skull.

England hasn't the time for his melodramatics, either figuratively or literally.

"Come on," he says, grasping France's wrist. "Up you get."

Somehow, England always forgets that France is stronger both than he looks and than England ever gives him credit for. He breaks England's hold and then catches his hand, all in the same quick, easy movement. His skin is incongruously warm.

"France," England hisses in a warning that goes unheeded.

Instead, France raises their linked hands to his eye-level and studies them with all of the careful consideration of a botanist faced with what he thinks may be a new species of plant.

Caught in a moment of self-defeating curiosity, England peeks at them too. He sees nothing but their differences: France's fingers are long and thin where his are sturdy; his nails are square-cut by clippers at a short, practical length, whereas France's are elegantly curved at their tips and buffed to a faint shine. They do not fit together well, which comes as no great surprise.

He tries to step away, but France pulls back with equal force, miring them in a stalemate.

"France," England tries again. "If you don't let go of me right now, I'll—"

France's grip loosens in an instant, but before he releases England completely, he presses a brief, dry kiss to his palm. His stubble bristles and his lips are slightly chapped, leaving a ghostly itch in their wake that England tries to rid himself of by scrubbing his hand vigorously against the front of his jacket.

"What the hell was that in aid of?" he snarls.

At first, France's only answer is a silent one. His gaze is penetrating, and it wanders so languidly down England's body that he feels as though his clothing is being stripped away by it, piece by piece.

Eventually, France gives a airy little sigh, and asks, "Why has it never been the right time for us, _Angleterre_?"

He doesn't sound unhappy, merely inquisitive.

"Because I dislike you, I find your advances repugnant, and you've been in love with my brother for near half our lives." The explanations come swiftly, without hesitation, even though only two of them are true.

Or perhaps two of them are lies. England cannot even be sure of that himself.

France's mouth twists into a sneer of distaste. "I have never been in love with Scotland."

Three lies, then.

His and France's mutual enmity is so ancient that the weight of their shared history as ground away most of its sharp edges, and what remains now is so well-worn that it's comfortable enough these days to be almost indistinguishable from wary affection, at least on England's part.

The hatred that rakes its sharp and scalding claws through his chest now is something he has not felt for many years. He doesn't know whether it's stirred on Scotland's behalf or his own, for all that he has suffered because of the relationship he had always assumed his brother had with the frog.

It probably doesn't matter, either way.

"Scotland might think differently," he forces himself to say, even though he can barely gulp down enough breath to form the words properly.

"If he does, he's a fool," France spits. "I have never promised him anything. Not one thing. Not ever. I don't know where you and your brother have got that ridiculous idea from. After everything _Pays de Galles_ said yesterday—"

He cuts himself off abruptly with a sharp click of his teeth. His colour, already high, darkens yet further.

"What?" England asks impatiently. "What could Wales possibly have to say that would upset you so much that you'd try your damnedest to drown yourself out here?"

"I'm not upset." France shakes his head. "I'm just tired. Have you any idea how exhausting it is? Fighting the same battle for centuries, and all the while knowing that you will likely have to give up some vital part of yourself when it finally does end, whether in victory or defeat?"

England doesn't understand what he's referring to, and he isn't sure he wants to, either.

"Look, if you're tired then surely the best cure is to go back to your hotel," he says, sensing an opening he might do well to exploit. "Things always look better after a good night's sleep."

France laughs; a high, grating sound that is entirely devoid of humour. "Trite, _Angleterre_, but I believe you may be right." Astonishingly, he starts straightening himself up out of his sprawl. "I can't imagine that they could possibly look any worse, after all."


	2. Chapter 2

_This was meant to be just a one-shot, but I suddenly got an idea of how to continue it, so here's a second chapter to finish it off._

_Sort of England/France, but only in that they kiss in this part. There's not really anything romantic about it, however._  
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When France first kissed England on the mouth, they were both scions of Rome and mere fragments of who they would later become, bearing names so ancient they are now long-lost to their people's history.

France had the golden curls and dimpled cheeks of a Renaissance putto, a tongue like a viper, and more than a head of height on England. He had to bend almost double to brush their lips together.

It was a child's kiss, swift and chaste; a spontaneous outpouring of joy and affection that gusted with giggles when England spluttered in indignity at the imposition.

The second time, York and Northumbria had lately been shattered, and England's lands lay smouldering from the Humber to the Tees. England himself was hollowed and harrowed, half-blinded by the blood which poured, unceasing, from the deep wounds which had cleft his brow. He had not sufficient strength remaining to him to keep from sinking to his knees in front of the Bastard.

It had been France who helped him up afterwards; his fingers biting down to the bone as he hauled England to his feet and then into a clash of mouths so violent that their lips split under the blow. There had been triumph riding the thrust of France's tongue, but something like an apology hidden in its curl.

The third time was on the _Champs-Élysées_, and France stank of rotting flesh and his recent privations. He was so weakened by them that he needed the support of Scotland's hand at his elbow to stand, but he was still smiling. A smile as clear and bright as the sound of his people's voices as they were lifted in celebration of their liberty.

That kiss was as brief as the first, a light press that must have meant nothing more than fellowship and gratitude as Scotland had watched them in silent indulgence all the while.

The fourth time they kiss they are travelling between the third and fourth floors of a London hotel. There is no design on France's part, no encouragement on England's, just the synchronic happenstance of inclined heads and a disequilibrating jolt of the lift.

France tastes of souring wine and stale cigarette smoke. There is only desperation on his tongue.

He keeps his palms moulded to England's cheeks even as England eases him away, and he smooths his middle fingers along the line of England's eyebrows, touches the tips of his thumbs to the corners of his mouth. His gaze roams restlessly around England's face, from hairline to chin and all points in between.

"Still the wrong brother," England tells him.

France's sigh rattles at the back of his throat. "That used to matter a lot less, I think," he says, resting his forehead against England's for a moment before he withdraws a wary arms' breadth away.

They do not speak again until the lift dings to announce their arrival at the ninth floor, and then only to negotiate the placement of arms across shoulders, the curl of hands around waists. During their journey from the pub, France had seemed to need England to direct his every movement – reminding him to bend his knees, pick up his feet, and move forward instead of back – but his steps are surer now, and he does not lean his weight as heavily against England's side as he did then.

It takes him a long while to fumble the keycard out of the pocket of his unnecessarily tight trousers once they reach his room, and even longer yet to try and align that card with the corresponding slot on the lock. The narrowing of his eyes and purse of his lips indicate intense concentration, and still he manages to jab it above and then below, to the right and then to the left.

Despite promising earlier that his responsibility for the frog's sad carcass would end upon his safe delivery to his door, England grows irritated enough by this pathetic display to pluck the card from France's hand and swipe it for him.

France mutters something that might just as readily be a curse as thanks, opens the door, and then proceeds to slap his hands against the wall inside, apparently in a futile quest for the light switch. He seems strangely unwilling to cross the threshold of the room whilst it's still dark, and he twists his body so tortuously around the jamb as a consequence that he almost overbalances.

"For fuck's sake," England growls, grabbing hold of France's hips to steady him. "I'm going to have to make sure you get yourself to bed before I leave, aren't I? If you trip over your own feet, break your neck, and miss tomorrow's meeting, Germany will probably never forgive me."

He finds the elusive light switch in an instant, flicks it on, and then steers France towards the bed at the centre of the room. France collapses on to it with a groan, face-down with his arms and legs sprawling wide.

Although their walk here had been short, France's inebriated swaying had made it more arduous than it should have been, and his rising body heat has dried his shirt in two elongated semicircular patches that sweep down from the curve of his shoulderblades like folded wings. The rest of the material is still sopping.

"Have you got some kind of nightwear you can change into?" England asks. "Pyjamas, perhaps?"

"No," France says bluntly.

Of course he doesn't.

"You can't sleep in those wet clothes, and I have no desire to either take them off you or watch you do so yourself. I'll go and get a glass of water and leave you to it. You'd better be safely tucked up under those covers by the time I get back, all right?"

France's head makes a vague bobbing motion that England chooses to interpret as a nod, and he beats a hasty retreat to the tiny en-suite bathroom.

The bath, sink and toilet are crammed so closely together that it's likely possible for a guest to wash their hair, brush their teeth, and piss all at the same time should they take it into their head to try, and the addition of France's ablutionary accoutrements make its confines appear all the tighter.

France's Paris apartment is exactingly neat – a place for everything, and everything in its place – but elsewhere he has the tendency to spread out and take up each scrap of available space. There are bottles and tubes, brushes and combs, haphazardly scattered across every flat surface, and even some electrical device of uncertain purpose nestled at the bottom of the sink.

England fishes it out, and then turns on the cold tap. The water is cloudy and tepid, but he fills one of the glasses set out beside France's toothbrush with it, anyway, because he knows from experience that it's unlikely to become any more palatable even if he were to keep it running for longer. One of the more unfathomable mysteries of hotel plumbing, he's always thought.

Afterwards, he listens carefully for movement in the bedroom beyond, but hears nothing. He's unsure whether that's a good sign or not, but as his only other option is to cower in this claustrophobic little coffin of a room half the night through, he eventually forces himself to return to France's bedside in ignorance, regardless.

France has not covered himself with the sheets as directed, but neither, to England's undying gratitude, is he naked. His trousers, socks and shoes have all been kicked to the floor, but if his pants had followed, the drape of his shirttails hides that dreadful truth from view.

His collar and cuffs are unbuttoned but no more, and he has folded his bare legs up underneath him. The soles of his long, narrow feet look vulnerably pale.

"Would you stay here with me tonight?" he asks without looking towards England.

England has shared his bed – or, at least, what had passed for one at the time – with France but once before. They had slept soundly then, but they'd both been so wearied by the long weeks, months, and years in the trenches that they probably could have nodded off just as easily in the middle of No Man's Land itself.

Those few short hours of peace they found together in the cubby hole remain the only time England has trusted France fully enough to turn his unprotected back on him, the present day included.

"I most certainly will not," he says.

France gives a watery-sounding sniff. "I dislike sleeping alone."

"I'm afraid you'll just have to get used to it."

"I'm already used to it. Familiarity hasn't made it any more pleasant, though."

England has no answer for that, no solace to give except for the water, which he hands to the other nation. France gulps it down greedily, even though his nose is wrinkled in disgust throughout.

"Go, then," he says after he's drained the glass. "I'll see you in the morning."

England sets out to obey with alacrity, but France's voice rings out again as he approaches the door.

"Wait," he says. "Please, wait a moment, _Angleterre._ I wanted to ask you..."

He pauses for so long that England begins to suspect that he might have fallen asleep mid-sentence. When he turns to check, however, France is still sitting bolt upright, although his head is bowed again, his expression masked by the shadowing fall of his hair.

"Ask me what?"

France clears his throat roughly, but his voice crackles like burning tinder nonetheless when he says, "How is _Écosse_ faring?"

The question irritates England for no real reason he can name, save perhaps that he has always hated the sound of that name from those lips. "You spent long enough wining and dining Wales yesterday, couldn't you have asked _him_ then?"

"I did ask," France says. "And he answered. I can't be sure that... I would rather hear it from you, as you're less likely to want to spare my feelings than _Pays de Galles_."

"You're right about that," England says. "But I want to play messenger between the two of you even less. If you're really that worried, why don't you go straight to the horse's mouth, as it were."

"I..." France tucks his chin against his chest, hiding his face from view entirely. "_Écosse_ will no longer answer my calls or reply to my emails."

"Well, try something different, then. Or take the hint and stop bothering him." Scotland's own words rise to the forefront of England's mind. They seem fitting to the occasion, so he passes them along to France. "Shit or get off the pot."

"'_Shit or get off the pot_'?" France repeats, a faint hint of laughter lightening his tone. "Eloquently put, _Angleterre_."

England shrugs. "It's Scotland's advice, not mine, if that makes you any more inclined to take it."

If it resonates with France at all, he makes no mention of it. He stays so quiet and still, in fact, that England soon tires of looking at him, and reaches out for the door handle instead.

This time, France does not attempt to stop him.


End file.
